


Stay  (I thought you wanted me to)

by AirgiodSLV



Category: The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-07-06
Updated: 2003-07-06
Packaged: 2019-07-20 08:55:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16133930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AirgiodSLV/pseuds/AirgiodSLV
Summary: It took two weeks for Viggo to figure out what Orlando reminded him of.





	Stay  (I thought you wanted me to)

**Author's Note:**

> The lyrics are from U2’s _Stay (Faraway So Close)_. Sincere thanks to Cyndi for being so supportive.
> 
> Warnings: Very dark. Sexual violence, drug use, self-inflicted injury.

_And if you look, you look through me_

 

It took two weeks for Viggo to figure out what Orlando reminded him of. When he finally realized, the comparison unsettled him. The picture was one he had found in a gallery somewhere, part of a display by a little-known Manhattan artist. Viggo had fallen in love with it immediately, struck by the sheer power and darkness of it. Looking back, he may have fallen in love with Orli just as quickly, but that wasn’t the reason for the comparison.

The picture was of a hawk in flight. It was spiraling downwards, defiance written along every feather, beak half-open in a silent shriek never to be heard. The fear when you looked at it was that the hawk would be smashed to pieces on the rocks below, but then you remembered its wings, and thought that there might be a chance after all.

With Orlando, Viggo thought that there might be a chance, but he wasn’t sure of how to stop the spiral for long enough to pull Orlando up out of the dive.

The tricky thing about Orlando was that he wasn’t always spiraling. At least not visibly. When he was at work, rehearsing or shooting, he was the consummate actor, professional but warm and friendly, well-mannered, polite, thoughtful, and considerate. Viggo would never have guessed if he had only seen Orlando at work, would have been fooled like everyone else by the smiles and hugs and laughter.

But it was after the day’s shooting that the mask started slipping, or perhaps only giving way to a new mask. Viggo wasn’t sure if Orlando ever stopped acting, stopped being someone for the people around him. Even when he wasn’t himself, so far gone that he could barely stay together, there was still a mask. He hid behind it while debauching himself into a state of abandon, which he pursued so purposefully and with such direct intent that it made Viggo wonder what he was trying so hard to leave behind. The hobbits loved him like that, wild and energetic and nearly out-of-control. They thought it was “fun.” Viggo thought that it was one of the most frightening transformations he had ever witnessed.

The first weekend that Viggo knew him, the drug of choice was alcohol. The cast had gone out for drinks at a local bar, and by the time a full second round was ordered, Orlando was on his fifth and flying high. Everything he did had extra sparkle to it, and a brightness that hurt Viggo’s eyes to look at him. Yet he couldn’t look away.

When Orlando passed out and went home with Elijah, Viggo expressed his concern to Sean, who had been with Orlando and the rest of the cast for longer than he had. Sean merely shook his head and said “That’s Orli,” and Viggo couldn’t think of what else to say.

The second weekend it was cigarettes. Viggo was surprised when Orlando didn’t touch the pitcher Ian had ordered, but instead chain-smoked until Viggo was amazed that he could still breathe. They were vanilla-scented, sweet and deadly, making the air around him thick with the smell and the smoke. After a few hours he had gone through one pack and was starting on a second. It was around this time, watching Orlando blow smoke over his shoulder casually into rings, that Viggo remembered the picture, and the spiral. And he wondered how long Orlando had been spiraling, and whether his wings were strong enough to pull him out of it.

After that he became fascinated. Orlando was like a Rubik’s Cube, and Viggo wanted to figure out how the squares aligned. If they did at all. Watching the change in Orlando from weekday to weekend night was like watching a car accident…or a hawk.

The third weekend it was an actual drug; something experimental, or possibly a cocktail. The hobbits had dragged them all out to a club, a techno-dance place with loud bass beats and flashing lights. Viggo watched in fascination as Orlando danced, becoming more and more sensual, hips swaying and eyes closed. He had partners falling all over each other to get to him, but remained indifferent. He would move with one and allow another to touch him, only to be pulled away a moment later by a third. _Fickle_ , Viggo thought at first, and then realized that Orlando was probably not even aware of the changes in the arms around him, the hands running over his body, the lips brushing his neck.

“Wow,” Elijah murmured beside him, and Viggo looked up to see what had caught his attention and inspired that level of dumbstruck awe. Then he lost the breath to ask what it was, because his eyes found it before he could speak. Orlando was still dancing, trapped between Dominic and some other man that Viggo didn’t recognize. He had lost his shirt somehow, leaving the stranger’s arms wrapped around the bare, slick skin of his waist while his tongue tangled with Dominic’s. Then the other man moved his lips to Orlando’s neck and his body arched into the contact, pushing his hips into Dominic’s as they continued to sway.

Viggo swallowed, looked away, saw Elijah staring open-mouthed. Gently he tapped Elijah’s hand to regain his attention and they continued the conversation, although Elijah kept stealing looks at the dance floor. Viggo poured all of his considerable control into not doing that very thing. Eventually Dominic came back to their table, laughing and sweating, breathing just a little uneven. Viggo wondered if this meant that the other man had won Orlando’s affections for the night, but when he scanned the room, he saw Orlando standing with Sean on the edge of the dance floor, talking calmly, thankfully back in his clothes. He was still jittery, but the effects of the drugs seemed to be wearing off.

Sean looked over at their table and met Viggo’s eyes with a smile and a little wave. Orlando looked as well, but Viggo felt as though Orlando’s eyes were going through him, beyond him, to the wall or his soul, Viggo wasn’t sure which. He dropped his eyes to the table, and when he had recovered enough composure to look up again, Sean was sitting in the chair across from him. “Orli went home,” he said in response to Viggo’s raised eyebrow.

Viggo looked around the room, counting familiar faces and not finding enough to justify spending another few hours out. “Perhaps it’s time for us to do so as well,” he suggested, picking up his jacket as Sean nodded and heading out into the night, waving goodbye to a distracted Elijah and feeling the cool fresh air hit him as he walked through the door. On the way home, he kept seeing Orlando trapped between two bodies, and he thought of the picture and the silent scream of a hawk.

 

_And when you talk, you talk at me_

 

The fourth weekend the drug of choice was sex, and Viggo was completely unprepared.

He sensed the change, as he was sure everyone else did, saw Orlando’s eyes go dark and feral as he stepped into the club. Viggo wondered what it meant when he saw Orlando’s center of gravity shift into his hips and watched him saunter over to the bar. He began to suspect what it meant ten minutes later, when Orlando made his choice and headed out onto the dance floor with a well-muscled blond in tow. He was certain of what it meant half-of-an-hour into their visit, when Orlando abruptly left for the bathroom with his dance partner and emerged some time later, looking disheveled and sultry and so sexy that Viggo had to struggle for his next breath.

He noticed Elijah’s interest, saw the naked hunger in those wide blue eyes, and surprised himself by feeling jealous. It was an unexpected feeling; the mix of emotions he felt regarding Orlando was not primarily sexual. Of course it was impossible for him not to find Orlando attractive, to fall under the spell of those dark liquid eyes. And since he had seen Orlando spiraling, he had been watchful. But intrigued and protective were very different from interested.

Certainly he’d never had the response Elijah had to Orlando. A response that Orlando was completely ignorant of. Or perhaps not; Viggo saw Orlando’s eyes drift over both of them, considering and dismissing, and then he was back on the dance floor. The ‘selection’ in the club, Viggo noted after a brief perusal, was not good. After another half-hour of dancing, Orlando had evidently come to the same conclusion, because he ended up back at their table, one bare arm slipping around Dominic’s neck as he tossed back Dom’s drink. Viggo watched as Dominic laughed, as Orlando whispered something in Dom’s ear that made him smile and pull Orlando in to whisper something in return. Orlando shifted and pulled away, although his hand remained on Dominic’s chest. He threw a quick, appraising look at Elijah, who was flushed and avoiding his gaze, and then his eyes came to rest on Viggo.

Viggo blinked, tried to process what he saw in those eyes, and then Orlando’s arms were sliding across his chest and Orlando’s lips were tickling the nape of his neck. “Dance with me?” came the husky whisper, a promise and a request, and Viggo had to swallow and take in a breath before he trusted his voice enough to answer.

“I don’t dance,” he responded, just as low, feeling Orlando’s lips drift across the scattered hairs and skin at his neck.

The hands on his chest tightened and smoothed, sliding in small circles over his ribs. “I’ll teach you.”

This time the sensual promise was much stronger, and Viggo forgot that they were talking about dancing, if they ever had been. “Here?”

A low, throaty chuckle, and then the hands were slipping over his arms, soothing and arousing. “We can go somewhere else if you like.” Orlando was getting impatient, his fingers plucking at the material of Viggo’s shirt.  
He needed a ‘fix,’ Viggo thought, and then realized that he was being offered a way in. “Your place?” he asked, quietly enough that he hoped no one else could hear. Orlando tensed, skittish, and then the hands on Viggo’s arms were once again moving, with more assurance now that the prize was in sight.

“Yours,” Orlando whispered, and then he was pulling Viggo up and away, Viggo stammering hasty goodbyes and trying to ignore Elijah’s glare and Sean’s raised brows.

They made it out the door, Orlando’s palm hot against his, and then Orlando was pulling him into an alley and slamming him against a wall. Sweet, warm lips found Viggo’s, claiming him in a desperate kiss that tasted of rum and mint. The tongue stroking his teeth, coaxing his lips apart, was slippery and thorough. Orlando’s hunger made Viggo freeze, left his body on autopilot while his mind raced. He had been with men before…of course he had, who in their profession hadn’t? But this was different, and not at all expected. This would change a relationship with a cast mate…but it might also be the only way to stop the spiral.

That last thought combined with the picture of the hawk in his mind and the memory of Orlando blowing smoke rings to decide him. His mind spun one last time while his mouth was ravished, and then he pulled away, gasping. “I thought we were going to my place,” he offered while he tried to collect himself.

Orlando rubbed against him, hard and urgent. “I want you now,” he demanded, his tongue tracing along Viggo’s jawline. His hands dropped to the waistband of Viggo’s pants, and Viggo realized that he was going to have to take care of this situation quickly and discreetly.

“Car,” he ordered, and then he had Orlando’s hand in his and was dragging him to the nearby lot.

Viggo considered the backseat of the rental, but the car was just too small for both of them to fit comfortably. Instead, he opened the passenger door for Orlando, and then made his way to the driver’s side, running a quick mental check to make sure that he was sober enough to drive. Then his key was in the ignition, his foot was on the pedal, and his hand was down Orlando’s pants, all simultaneously. His passenger gasped in surprise, but wriggled accommodatingly into a better position. Viggo kept things slow and smooth, knowing that this was not at all what Orlando wanted but unwilling to risk an accident if things got out of control. He checked on his passenger as they came to a stop sign, wondering at the lack of sound.

What he saw almost stopped his breath. Orlando was pressed back against the car seat, jaw clenched, breathing erratic and shallow. His face was tilted slightly, catching the moonlight that poured through the car window. He looked breathtaking, like something out of Dante’s _Divine Comedy_ , although it was unclear whether he belonged in heaven or hell. Viggo chided himself for being distracted by literary comparisons and turned his attention back to the road. He sped up a fraction, both on the road and on his passenger, and listened to the rhythm of Orlando’s breathing change in response. He was mildly surprised to find how much it nettled him that Orlando was being so quiet. Viggo had enough experience as a lover to make this pleasurable, he wanted an appropriate reaction.

His annoyance translated into sharp, almost violent pulls over Orlando’s skin, the car speeding up again along with his hand, and then Orlando was coming with a soft strangled sound that was choked back into silence and heavy breathing. Viggo took a deep breath of his own and pulled a stack of napkins out of his glove compartment, wiping himself clean on one and passing the rest to Orlando. There was nothing intimate about the moment, no tenderness, but Viggo hadn’t really expected that. This was about sex, and possibly a way into the labyrinth of Orlando’s soul. Nothing romantic about it.

They made the rest of the drive in silence, pulling up at Viggo’s trailer just as the car clock turned to 2:00am. Viggo parked, walked up the path, unlocked the door and entered, knowing without having to look that Orlando was just a step behind him. “Care for a drink?” he offered, slinging his coat onto the couch. Normally he would have been a lot more neat, hanging the jacket in his closet and leaving his shoes by the door, but there was tension and awkwardness in the room, and he didn’t want to pretend that picking up young men and bringing them home with him was part of his routine.

“No, thank you,” Orlando returned politely, distantly, and Viggo discovered that while the awkwardness was definitely coming from himself, all of the tension was emanating from Orlando. The car had just been a quick fix, a temporary solution, Viggo realized. Now the craving was back, stronger, and Orli was only hanging on through sheer willpower. Viggo debated drawing things out, making the young man sweat and lose some of that masking control, but even as he considered Orlando’s body was against his and his tongue was licking at Viggo’s lips, and whatever half-formed plans for the evening he had created were thrown out the window.

They were in the bed within minutes, naked and twined together, and Viggo’s brain was attempting to tell him how wrong this was while his body was screaming for more. He silenced the voice of his conscience and pinned Orlando to the mattress, hands over Orlando’s wrists as his head dipped to the hollow of the boy’s throat. Orlando was silent, trembling with energy but still completely in control, waiting patiently while Viggo trailed down his neck to his collarbones, his sternum. His body tensed when Viggo settled on a nipple, hard and taut beneath his lips, and then relaxed again while Viggo rolled, teased, licked. He was much too calm, too in control. Viggo released Orlando’s wrists and began lightly stroking his arms, fingertips brushing the light covering of hair as his mouth traveled further, licking around and finally dipping into Orlando’s navel.

That got more of a reaction than he had expected, a cry that was abruptly cut off and a small thrust up towards Viggo’s tongue. It was, however, the strongest reaction Viggo had gotten thus far, and he was not about to dismiss it. His hands continued soothing while his tongue worked, tracing tiny patterns around Orlando’s belly button and feeling the hard strength of tense muscles in Orlando’s stomach, and then he began the attack in earnest, licking Orlando up from the inside out, simulating an act which he knew Orlando’s body was currently screaming for. His tongue plunged in and out of Orlando’s navel while the boy on his bed whimpered softly, hands clutching the sheets, until they were both a step away from losing complete control and Viggo felt Orlando’s hands on his head, dragging him up for a scorching kiss.

No words, still; evidently Orlando didn’t believe in pillow talk. Instead, he let his hands speak for him, one holding the back of Viggo’s head loosely, keeping him in place while they kissed, the other closing around Viggo and stroking, hard and fast. It was much too soon, in Viggo’s opinion, but Orlando was already shaking and desperate, so Viggo fumbled in his bedside drawer for lubricant. Then, “No,” and Orlando was spreading his legs, locking his ankles behind Viggo’s thighs and drawing him closer. Viggo spent a brief moment wondering whether or not to push the issue, but then he brushed against Orlando and instinct took over automatically, thrusting him forward into bliss.

Their coupling was furious, almost violent. Viggo had never been this rough with a lover before, but Orlando was relentless, driving him on with kisses and touches and carefully placed pressure. Then they were almost at the end, and Orlando’s head dropped back against the pillows, breathing in gasps, turned away to the side so that the moonlight played across his features, streaming in through the open window. Viggo thought one thousand things at that moment, and all of them flitted away before he could fully process what they meant, only something about beauty and truth and guilt, and why Orlando used sex as a punishment and a drug, and then he was coming, crying out as Orlando followed with a whimper that never got farther than his throat before it was checked and silenced.

They lay quiet for a moment, and then Orlando pulled away. Viggo let him go, watched him disappear into the bathroom, and wondered how he could possibly salvage the situation. When Orlando returned, damp washcloth in hand, Viggo cleaned up in silence, still thinking. And then Orlando went to leave again, and Viggo stopped him with a hand on his arm. Their eyes met, and for once Orlando appeared to actually look at him, to meet his eyes. Their gaze held for what seemed like a short eternity, and then Orlando dipped his head in acknowledgement and allowed Viggo to pull him back onto the bed.

There was a moment of awkwardness once Orlando was settled in his arms, head against his chest, and then Viggo said the first thing on his mind. “Beauty is truth, truth beauty.” It seemed utterly out of place, but he thought that he felt Orlando smile against his skin. “Keats,” he said by way of explanation, a moment later. “‘Ode on a Grecian Urn’.”

“I know,” came the quiet reply, and Viggo stroked Orlando’s back gently, feeling a taut readiness beneath the skin. The desperation had dissipated, leaving controlled tension and energy in its wake, not at all the lethargy that Viggo usually enjoyed after sex. His fingers found the knots in muscles that must have been screaming in pain, but when he tried to work on them Orlando tensed, so he went back to stroking.

“Why me?” he asked softly, bringing his other hand up to caress Orlando’s hair. “Why not Dominic or Elijah?”

There was a moment of silence before Orlando responded. “Elijah’s too submissive. Breaking in a virgin takes far too much time and effort, and besides, he would never take control properly. I just wanted to be taken.” Orlando’s lips brushed against Viggo’s skin as he spoke, and Viggo wondered why on earth Orlando was actually answering him, when in other personal situations he had simply shut down. Perhaps this was the way to get him to open up, to stabilize the spiral he was caught up in. Or perhaps he was only talking at Viggo rather than to him, placating him with a few words without risking any sort of emotional involvement. The lips continued, and Viggo forced his mind back to attention. “You were available, and experienced, and willing. Not to mention better looking than anything in that club.”

“And Dom?” Viggo asked, still mulling over the main points of Orlando’s decision, thinking of the kiss in the club and the sparkle in Dominic’s eyes after their dance.

Orlando smiled again; Viggo’s breath stopped as he felt the brush of lips. “Dom only kisses.”

Viggo wanted more, wanted much, much more, wanted to be taken into secret confidences and receive the explanations for the drugs, and the sex, the need for an outlet. But Orlando’s lips were no longer brushing as he spoke, they were brushing as he kissed, slipping lower and lower until Viggo could no longer reach his back to stroke, but that didn’t matter because they were tangling instead in the sheet as Orlando swallowed over him. Repeatedly.

The second time was less rushed than the first, partially due to Viggo’s recovery time being not quite what Orlando’s was, but it was still hard and rough, Orlando’s pliant body turning demanding as he straddled Viggo, moonlight feathering over his entire torso as they rocked together. And again Orlando came without a sound, although Viggo felt that he himself made enough noise for both of them, and when he disappeared into the bathroom, Viggo lost the struggle to stay awake and allowed his eyes to drift closed.

When he woke, internal alarm set to 5:00am and unsympathetic to the fact that he had barely slept for an hour, he knew without opening his eyes that Orlando would be gone without a trace.

 

_And when I touch you, you don’t feel a thing_

 

He saw Orlando on the set, of course, but somehow it was different. The person Orlando was at work was completely divorced from the person he was during his off-time. That weekend he disappeared quite thoroughly, and Viggo spent most of two restless nights wondering where he was and what he was doing. When he returned, seemingly thinner and with shadows in his eyes, Viggo didn’t have the courage to ask.

Week six came and went, and then they were all somehow talked into going out to another club, and Orlando showed up wearing skintight leather and black mesh, kohl around his eyes and looking like a goth boy’s wet dream. Viggo watched, fascinated, as he prowled the club, picking up and dismissing at least a dozen prospects as the night crawled on. In between dances he was back with the hobbits at their table, sparkling and drinking and laughing along with the rest of them, and then a shadow would fall across the table and he would excuse himself to go stalk the latest possibility. Viggo questioned whether he was still after sex, or whether it was something more this time. He was certainly less hurried, more calculating, and his standards seemed to be considerably higher.

So Viggo made small talk with Sean, mostly reminiscences of their own misspent youths and expressions of disbelief that they were out clubbing at their ages, and he kept an eye on Orlando. He didn’t realize that Orlando was aware of his scrutiny until once, during a dance, with some stranger licking his way down Orlando’s throat, those dark eyes looked directly up at him, met his stunned and guilty expression with a knowing smile. Viggo pulled his eyes away, uncomfortable now that he had been found out, and focused on his conversation with Sean, who was politely pretending not to notice Viggo’s wandering attention.

Sometime during the next hour, Orlando must have made his choice, because when the rest of their group was ready to leave, he was already gone. Viggo pretended not to care, went home and made tea, thought about the unique problem Orlando presented and not the way his body had felt underneath Viggo’s, the way his skin smelled when he was aroused and naked. At 6am he admitted defeat, set aside the T.S. Eliot collection he had been skimming, rubbed his eyes and went for a walk. He had the day off, he could always nap later to catch up on the sleep he had lost. The silence was at once both comforting and eerie; dark trailers and cars and not a soul awake save him. He took the long way around, passing makeup and costumes trailers, and when he saw a familiar frame sprawled against the side of one of the props trailers he almost convinced himself that it wasn’t real.

He hesitated, debated, and then gave in and walked over to meet Orlando, wondering what on earth he was doing up at this hour of the morning, sitting in the dust outside of an uninhabited trailer. Then he got close enough to see the bruises, and cold suspicion fluttered for a moment before becoming certain knowledge.

He crossed the last few paces swiftly to kneel beside the young man, tilting his face up in the pale light of morning. Orlando was as pale as the dawn, and would be as many colours as the sunrise by tomorrow if the darkening swellings on his cheek and collarbone were any indication. “Christ,” Viggo swore, as Orlando’s kohl-smudged eyes focused on him and the boy winced against the pain and the sunlight.

“Viggo,” Orlando identified him calmly, and then his eyes drifted closed again with a little sigh.

“No, don’t pass out on me. Orlando, can you walk?” His inquiry was met with a confused nod and then a muted protest as Viggo lifted him to his feet. They were nearly at Viggo’s trailer; he had no idea of where Orlando was staying, or whether there were medical supplies available. He weighed his options briefly and supported Orlando as they began the journey back to his residence. They had to stop several times; once because Orlando was shivering so hard that Viggo stopped to wrap his own sweatshirt around the trembling body, and then a few more because Orlando was in too much pain to continue and pleaded for a rest.

Once they were inside, Viggo led his young guest straight to the bathroom, toeing off his own shoes at the door and tossing his keys onto the table with a clatter that sounded startlingly loud after the dead quiet of the sleeping world outside. Orlando winced when the lights came on but didn’t struggle as Viggo began taking off his shoes. “I’m fine, Vig, you don’t have to...”

“Hush. You’re not fine, here, let me see...” The fabric of Orlando’s shirt was covered in blood. Viggo peeled it away gingerly, working the material loose with a wet washcloth where it was stuck to Orlando’s skin. He tossed the mesh aside and took a moment to just stare in disbelief as he saw what the fabric had disguised. Then he took a deep breath and went to work cleaning up the blood.

Orlando’s torso was a mass of bruises, with what looked like jagged scratches on his chest and criss-crossed lacerations on his back. There were teeth-marks showing against the unusually pale skin of his throat and around his nipples, and the outlines of fingers were clearly imprinted on his hips above the waistband of his low-cut leather pants. Viggo worked silently, jaw clenched, and Orlando sat, passively watching until eventually his dark eyes drifted closed. He gave no indication that he could feel Viggo’s hands on his skin, even when Viggo sprayed stinging antiseptic into the cuts on his back and wiped away the thin crusts of blood. Orlando’s skin was cold, and Viggo tried to finish as quickly as possible, wondering just how long Orlando had been sitting outside before Viggo found him.

Once the last of the antiseptic had been applied and the final bandage was in place, Viggo hesitated. It wasn’t his place...but since some of those bruises had obviously been inflicted in passion...

“Don’t,” Orlando whispered as Viggo’s fingers settled on the button of his pants, dark eyes fluttering open instantly.

“I’m not going to try anything, Orli. I just want to make sure that you aren’t bleeding anywhere else.”

That received a faint smile, but Orlando’s hands still pushed his away. “I’ll take care of it.” When Viggo hesitated, he added “Please,” and there was no choice but to back off, leaving towels and a clean washcloth on the counter, walking into the bedroom, door closing behind him with a click.

Once he was safely away from the bathroom, Viggo’s temper snapped. He picked up a spare pillowcase and ripped it down the seam, reinforced stitches giving way before the strength of his anger. A sound from the bathroom brought him back from that haze of red, and he stood breathing for a few minutes before retrieving another pillowcase and changing the sheets on his bed.

Orlando appeared in the doorway just as he was turning down the blanket, towel slung low around thin hips, blinking, disoriented. “There are spare pajamas on the bed,” Viggo offered, forcing himself not to stare at the handprints on Orlando’s waist. “You can sleep here.” Receiving a nod in response, he went back to the bathroom, stomach clenching at the sight of the neatly folded and bloodstained sweatshirt, laid on the toilet seat along with the rest of the clothes, bile rising in the back of his throat. He choked it down and brushed his teeth, washed his face, pretended that this was a normal evening at home.

His illusions dissipated when he stepped back into the bedroom to see Orlando in his freshly-made bed, curled onto his side in a set of Viggo’s pajama bottoms, looking fragile and lost and very young indeed. Viggo got into bed gingerly, careful not to brush against his guest, but as soon as he was settled, Orlando’s hand found his beneath the covers. Moving slowly and deliberately, Viggo eased up against the younger man’s body, his other arm closing protectively around his shoulders. Orlando sighed a little, and didn’t pull away, so he stayed there. The last night they had spent together was still haunting Viggo, so after a moment he asked, “Why did you leave?”

Orlando shrugged a little against him. “I thought you wanted me to.”

Viggo said nothing, just tightened his hold, still loose enough that he wasn’t putting any pressure on the damaged skin and muscle. “I’m sorry,” he said finally, meaning both the last time and this time, trying not to think about what Orlando’s body looked like right now, not to remember what it had looked like then.

“Don’t be,” came the sleepy reply, as Orlando pulled him a little closer. “It wasn’t anything that I didn’t want.”

Viggo’s head jerked up in surprise, and he wondered if he had perhaps misheard, or misunderstood. There was no chance to ask, Orlando was already asleep, breaths deep and even. His body in Viggo’s arms was the most relaxed that he had ever felt it, and Viggo’s mind finally clicked another puzzle piece into place. He pulled the sheet up a little, traced the pattern of bandages across Orlando’s back, suddenly understanding the reason for the boy’s selectivity in the club. “Why?” he whispered into the light hairs on the back of Orlando’s neck. He never really expected an answer.

 

_And if you listen, I can’t call_

 

When Viggo woke, Orlando was still asleep, relaxed and warm, defenseless and unmasked. He wished that he could hold Orlando like this, at least for long enough to get some answers, but he doubted that he would get the chance. He was debating whether or not to get up and make coffee when Orlando stirred in his arms. Viggo unconsciously held his breath, watching long eyelashes flutter open to blink dazedly at him. For one precious moment Orlando’s eyes held his, drowsy and unguarded, and then Viggo could almost feel the walls slam back into place as defenses went up and Orlando locked him out.

“Good morning,” he said, for lack of any other words.

“Good morning,” Orlando returned politely, suspicion in his voice. “Why…?” Then he must have moved, or breathed, or finally woken up enough to feel sensation again, because his whole body tensed as he winced on an indrawn gasp of air. “Oh.”

“You had a bit of a rough night,” Viggo said, unnecessarily. He wondered if he should pull away, take his arms from around Orlando’s body, rather than continue this forced and false intimacy. Orlando solved his dilemma by rolling onto his back, one hand at his temple, the other against his flat stomach. “I’ll go start some coffee, shall I?” Viggo offered, not waiting for a reply. His own body had decided that he should get out of this bed now, away from this boy with his cutting vulnerability, before he did something that he would later regret.

The rich scent of coffee beans filled the small kitchenette within minutes, inviting Viggo to inhale and center his swirling thoughts. Coffee grounded him, made him once again awake, aware, able to take on anything. Even the dark-eyed young man who appeared in the doorway, one hand still cradled against his ribs, watching Viggo slicing potatoes. Viggo narrowly missed slicing his thumb, forced himself to concentrate. Breathed in the scent of the coffee.

“Thank you,” Orlando said finally, filling the silence. “For taking care of me last night.”

“It was no trouble,” Viggo responded automatically. This he could do, exchange pleasantries and small talk. This was safe, without the dangerous temptation of bare skin and brown eyes and soft lips. “Would you care for breakfast? I’m frying potatoes.”

Hesitation; Orlando looked like all he wanted was to get out of the trailer and back onto his own ground, but after a lengthy pause he said, “Yes, please.” Viggo fought to keep his surprise from showing, continued slicing potatoes, wasn’t sure quite what to do now. Orlando was still watching him intently from the doorway, rumpled but alert, a paradox between the boyish figure in too-large pajama bottoms and the worldly gaze from knowing eyes, the bruises which stood out against the naked skin of his torso.

“You can borrow some of my clothes if you would like,” Viggo offered, careful not to look up from his cutting. After a moment he broke, gave in to the urge and looked up between slices to see Orlando still standing there, watching. Their eyes met; Orlando smiled faintly, and then melted back into the bedroom while Viggo stood staring after him. Then he shook his head, chiding himself for letting Orlando throw him off-guard yet again, and dumped the potatoes into a skillet, where they sizzled satisfyingly in the hot oil. Coffee poured, table set. Viggo cracked eggs and kept his thoughts firmly on cooking.  
Orlando drifted in a moment later, wearing one of Viggo’s sweaters and a pair of corduroy pants that just barely hung onto his slim hips. “Smells good,” he complimented, taking a seat at the table gingerly and reaching for the cup of coffee in front of him. Viggo thanked him immediately, noting that they were back to polite conversation, wondering if this was still the Weekend Orlando or the sweet, thoughtful Orlando from work. Neither description seemed to fit, looking at the quiet young man sitting at his table, absently sipping coffee and shrugging down the sleeves of the loose sweater. The potatoes turned golden enough for Viggo to declare them finished, and he served them with eggs and orange juice, much to Orlando’s obvious amusement.

Breakfast was a surreal experience. They chatted about acting, and the films, and ate the potatoes and eggs as if last night and the weekend before had never occurred. Viggo nearly brought the subject up on several occasions, but each time he glanced up to see Orlando watching him with those knowing eyes, and he had a feeling that Orlando was waiting for him to say something, knowing with cold certainty that if he did this bizarre truce would be over and he would be locked out once again, and the words died in his throat unspoken.

When they finished eating, Viggo put the dishes in the sink and groped for something to say, some reason for Orlando to be here. Orlando waited patiently at the table, watching him, listening for words that Viggo was no longer sure of how to say. He raised his eyes to look at Orlando, saw the bruises instead. Viggo was torn between the desire to ask Orlando to stay, and the knowledge that he never would. So he settled for a faint, shared smile, and walked Orlando to the door. And was surprised when Orli left him with the warmth of breath on his face and the memory of a quick soft kiss on his cheek.

 

_And if you jump, you just might fall_

 

Viggo was in his temporary studio painting when Orlando found him. He heard the click of the door and then the thud as it slammed shut, and mentally prepared himself for the confrontation about to occur. His relationship with Orlando had changed, although he wasn’t sure quite what they had shifted to or from. They were sleeping together more or less regularly, although Viggo doubted exclusively. He wouldn’t call them lovers. Lovers had the word ‘love’ in it, and that certainly wasn’t them. They maintained professional distance on-set and off, and although some people certainly had their suspicions, there was nothing about their interaction in public that suggested a closer relationship.

Perhaps that was why Viggo had shocked everyone this morning by dressing down Orlando for careless behaviour in front of a good portion of the principal cast. Orlando’s drug this weekend was evidently high-risk sports, and he had decided to take several of the hobbits with him for a bungee-jumping expedition. When Viggo saw them outside the medical tent, Elijah was on his back on the ground, and Billy was fetching an ice-pack for a possible pulled muscle near his spine. Viggo had taken one look at the young actor biting his lip against the pain and decided that enough was enough. And then he had taken Orlando to task for every risk, every foolish escapade, every bit of unprofessional behaviour he could remember, and some he only suspected but soon saw confirmed in Orlando’s eyes.

The hobbits had protested, saying that it had been their idea to go along, that Orlando was only being a good friend by teaching them to jump, but for Viggo it was about more than this one incident. It was about every day that Orlando showed up to work hiding exhaustion and every night that Viggo didn’t know where he was or if he would make it back. It was supposed to be a protective gesture, in a way, and only as he heard himself mentioning the night Orlando had been beaten did he realize how much of their trust he was breaking.

He finished what he had to say and then turned around and walked away, too angry to stay and slightly confused as to what was fueling his emotions. So now he had to face the music.

Orlando stopped in the doorway. Viggo knew he was there, could feel the gaze burning into his back. He waited patiently, knowing that it was Orlando’s turn to speak.

“If you ever do that again,” Orlando said quietly, controlled fury under the calm of his tone, “I will walk out and you will never see me again, do you understand? There is nothing keeping me here. I can leave at any time, without a backward glance. Do you understand me?” Viggo turned, finally, to see the hot anger in those familiar eyes. Orlando’s shoulders slumped slightly from their rigid posture, and the expression in his eyes softened. “I’m not a victim, Vig. I choose my life. Stop looking at me as if I have to be protected from the world. If you jump, you run the risk of falling. I know that.”

Viggo hadn’t realized that he saw Orlando like that. A puzzle, certainly, but…yes, a victim. He had been looking for a reason behind Orlando’s behaviour since the moment he’d noticed the spiral. But Orlando was wrong about the protection. Not from the world, from himself. Viggo wondered when he had taken on the responsibility. Even so, this was about more than him now, more than them. He took a deep breath. “Elijah…”

“I’m sorry!” Orlando finally exploded, temper flaring as he whirled to kick something and visibly stopped himself. “It was an accident! I never should have let them come along. I can’t control him!”

And suddenly Viggo realized the true reason for Orlando’s feigned ignorance of Elijah’s infatuation. Just as Viggo was trying to protect Orlando, Orlando was attempting to protect Elijah. “Is that why you do it?” Viggo asked, surprised and curious. “To control how you lose control?”

Orlando didn’t answer, wouldn’t look at him, just stood in the doorway staring at the frame. Viggo gave him space, turned back to his canvas to think. After a moment he heard Orlando moving around the studio, examining the artwork. Viggo closed his eyes, following Orlando’s progress through the room in his mind by the location of the sounds. When he stopped, Viggo knew exactly what he was looking at.

“What is this?”

Viggo opened his eyes but didn’t turn around. “You,” he answered, seeing the spiral, and the hawk, and Orlando’s naked body beneath his.

“This is how you see me?” The tone was puzzled, but much calmer now.

“Yes.” Simple question, simple answer. Which surprised him. With Orlando, things were rarely simple, and Viggo almost never had answers.

“Why?”

Ah, now things were getting more complex. He didn’t know how to put what he saw into words, but Orlando saved him the trouble by turning away from the painting and walking over to him. Hands on his shoulders, fingers in his hair, tilting his head back, mouth on his.

“Don’t paint me,” Orlando whispered against his lips.

Viggo started to pull back slightly to see Orlando, was stopped by the tightening of fingers in his hair. “Why not?” he asked quietly, returning the caress with his lips, their mouths barely separated by air.

“Because I don’t want to see,” Orlando answered, and then the lips were on him in earnest, drinking him up, and there was nowhere else to go.

 

_And if you shout, I’ll only hear you_

 

It was bound to happen eventually. The weather changed, as did the shooting schedule, and suddenly they were working out on location for eighteen days straight without a full day off. Viggo watched Orlando, saw the strain buried beneath the outward appearance of humour and calm. By day fourteen he was looking outright ill, pale and with dark circles under his eyes that Makeup cheerfully brushed away with good-natured teasing about who was keeping him up late at night.

On the last day they were scheduled to work, Orlando was visibly eager to finish and get away, fidgeting and jittery, constantly in motion. When their director called Orlando, Viggo, and John together after what was supposed to be the final wrap, Viggo knew that there was going to be trouble. His suspicions were confirmed in the next sentence from Peter’s mouth. Something about needing to reshoot some scenes, and could they work tomorrow, and of course they would be paid overtime according to the rules of their contracts. Orlando, still in professional mode but with the mask already starting to slip, agreed understandingly with a smile. Viggo hesitated, but Orlando’s eyes reminded him that the young man was not his to protect. With John’s affirmation, they signed away their break for yet another week.

It didn’t surprise him that Orlando had disappeared by the time Viggo was out of costume, although it didn’t reassure him, either. It wasn’t his place. Orlando had made that quite clear to both of them. Even so…

A few questions, along with shy smiles and a bit of harmless flirting, provided the location of Orlando’s trailer. A few internal debates, complete with nagging conscience and that unsettled feeling, provided the courage to actually walk across their base to Orlando’s door. Which was open when he reached it.

He wasn’t sure why that made him even more nervous. Perhaps because Orlando was so intent on privacy, his personal life hidden carefully behind walls that Viggo still had no way of breaching. He had imagined that the locks on Orlando’s soul would also be present on his door. But there it was, cracked slightly, and Viggo debated yet again with his conscience before curiosity won and he walked in.

He also wasn’t sure what he had expected Orlando’s temporary home to be like. Barren and impersonal, perhaps, or filled with false signs of inhabitance. Certainly not this…normal. A few dishes, some photographs, a note on the counter reminding him to call his agent before Tuesday. Viggo took a few more steps, hesitantly, wondering if Orlando was even here. The main room was empty, as was the bathroom, although the medicine cabinet was hanging open. The bedroom…

He froze when he saw the blood. A lot of it. All soaking into the newspapers that seemed to have been placed there for the sole purpose of catching the liquid as it streamed from Orlando’s arms. It wasn’t a suicide attempt, he knew that immediately: the cuts were shallow, at least not deep enough to cut through major veins, and they were carefully placed on the soft skin of Orlando’s forearm, rather than on his wrist. He could see the rocks in his mind, hear the shrill scream as the hawk dove. Viggo took two steps into the room without thinking, and then stilled as Orlando’s eyes came up to meet his.

“Go away,” Orlando whispered, so Viggo did the opposite. He crossed the few remaining paces separating them and knelt on the carpet, just outside of the circle of newspapers, leaning in to catch Orlando’s wrists, shaking the right one until the razor blade in Orlando’s hand dropped to the ground. He didn’t know what to do. He had no experience with this sort of thing, nothing to guide him or get that dead look out of Orlando’s eyes. The young man wasn’t fighting him, which was something of a surprise, but not one that Viggo was going to protest. Not knowing whether it was genius or idiocy, he pulled Orlando to him for a rough kiss. If sex was the only way that Orlando would allow Viggo to connect with him, then that was what he was going to use.

Orlando fought for a half second, pulling against the hold that Viggo had on his back and neck, and then sank into the embrace with what sounded like a choked sob. Viggo didn’t stop, didn’t allow Orlando to regain his balance. If the walls went back up this time, he was sure that they would never come back down. Still rough, the way they had always been, he yanked off Orlando’s shirt and kissed his way down the side of Orlando’s neck. When thin arms still sticky with blood came up to hesitantly grip his shoulders, he used the leverage to lift and push Orlando onto the bed, laying him out on his back while Viggo’s fingers continued to strip them of their clothes.

Orlando must have realized his intention a second before Viggo reached his goal, because the body beneath him tensed and Orlando started to speak. The sound turned into a whimper as Viggo’s tongue circled his navel, tiny teasing circles, not allowing Orlando the time to adjust before he was plunging in and out, his hands around Orlando’s waist holding on tightly as the body he was violating bucked against him, and this time Viggo did hear a cry before it was silenced into a muffled keen.

He was more violent than he had intended, taking and claiming as the weeks of frustration all broke loose at once. His brain was spinning dizzily in circles, barely managing to direct his body as he offered Orlando his fingers to suck, which the young man did a bit desperately, still moaning as Viggo’s tongue worked and ravished. A little careful preparation, and then Viggo pulled away with a final lick. Orlando moved to roll onto his hands and knees, but Viggo fought him, climbing up Orlando’s body to straddle him, and he saw the understanding and fear in Orlando’s eyes just before Viggo pushed down.

Another soft wail, this time not stifled, and Orlando’s eyes closed tight. “Look at me, Orlando,” Viggo whispered as he rolled Orlando on top of him, rocking slowly, his own body adjusting to the unaccustomed intrusion. They had never been here, never joined this way. Orlando had been very careful to always be the one taken, the sacrifice. Orlando’s eyes flickered open automatically at the command, and then Viggo purposefully pulled back and pushed forward hard, making Orlando’s eyes widen and his hands clutch at Viggo’s arms.

“Look at me,” he demanded as Orlando tried to break contact, to flinch away. His face was pale, whether from stress or loss of blood Viggo wasn’t sure. They would have to make this fast, anyway. But not before he had what he wanted.

“Say my name,” he whispered, as Orlando fought tears, blinking fast as moisture built up on his lashes. Viggo rocked harder, his lips finding every crevice and sensitive spot on Orlando’s face and neck. “Say it.” Orlando fought him, struggled against his body while still battling pleasure and tears. “Say it, Orli.” They were nearly at the end, he could feel Orlando tensing. But not yet. “Say it,” he whispered again, wondering what he was trying to prove, and then he heard the gasp and shout as Orlando jerked in his arms.

“Viggo.” And then Orlando started crying in earnest, twisting to get away while Viggo held him relentlessly in place. “Let me go,” Orlando begged, still struggling ineffectually as Viggo pinned him to the bed.

“No.” And that was that; he held on until Orlando stopped fighting, until the taut muscles went limp and Orlando collapsed in on himself, crying softly and shaking. Only then did he relax, rolling to the side and pulling Orlando against his chest. There was blood everywhere; on Orlando, on the sheets, on Viggo. Too much for Viggo’s peace of mind, but he could only deal with one thing at a time, so he remained still and held Orlando gently, as if he would break at a touch.

Eventually Orlando quieted, and after a moment of regaining composure he pulled back to meet Viggo’s gaze. His eyes were even more liquid now, and haunted, but the defenses were still there. “This doesn’t change anything,” he said calmly, as if they were having coffee and discussing politics. “You can’t just change me in one night.”

“I know,” Viggo answered, although a small part of him had hoped it would be that easy. “But I’m willing to take what I can get.”

“Why?” Orlando asked, still wary. “I’m not like that hawk in your studio, Vig. You can’t paint my wings back on and think that everything is fixed.”

“Perhaps not, but I would help you if you’d let me,” Viggo whispered, reaching to pull off a piece of prosthetic glue that Makeup had missed. Orlando watched him without flinching, suspicion lurking in the corners of his expression.

“And if I don’t need help?” Orlando challenged, arms crossed defensively over his chest but still barely hanging on to his facade. “If I don’t want help?”

“Oh, I think that we both know better than that,” Viggo replied softly, holding Orlando’s gaze until the younger man blushed and looked away.

“I’m fine, really,” came the soft protest. “I don’t…” But there were no more words after that, only tears which Orlando tried to hide behind his hands. Viggo pulled him close, ignored the resistance, and stroked his back soothingly until Orlando had cried himself out and fell asleep exhausted in Viggo’s arms. He slept restlessly, waking up several times during the night, and each time he tried to fight, and each time Viggo held him until he gave up and listened to whispered confessions and doubts and all of the confusion of a young actor who had been on his own since he was sixteen in a business where rejection and backstabbing were the standard treatment.

Viggo himself didn’t sleep, afraid that if he dozed off Orlando would wake up and disappear. And there were no second chances for this; he knew that instinctively. As strong as Orlando’s wings were, he wouldn’t be able to make it on strength and defiance alone. So Viggo traced patterns on Orlando’s skin while he slept; made sure that the bleeding had stopped from the rows of cuts on Orlando’s arm, touching both the fresh cuts and the fainter scars from days, weeks, months ago; and watched the sun rise through the bedroom window.

Orlando woke just as Viggo was considering rousing him, eyes red from weeping but looking more at peace with himself than Viggo had ever expected to see. He blinked a few times, reached up to gingerly touch Viggo’s cheek and jaw, running his fingers lightly over the stubble. Viggo held still, watched Orlando’s eyes as they drifted across Viggo’s face.

“Why did you stay?” Orlando asked finally, thumb on Viggo’s lips.

Viggo kissed it gently, the vulnerable, fragile expression on Orlando’s face cutting his heart and at the same time making him want to laugh out loud in triumph. He settled for a smile. “I thought you wanted me to.” And after a long moment of considering silence, Orlando smiled back.


End file.
